paused, flashing that smile as she signed a few autographs. "The
producers arranged it with your superiors this afternoon." She slanted a
lo(yk at him under her lashes, then strolled off to her trailer where
she was immediately surrounded by a bevy of assistants.
Michael stood where he was.
"Kesselring."
Michael blinked, then focused on the wide, red face of Sergeant Cohen.
"Sergeant?"
"You're to escort Miss Parks home. Until your orders change, you're to
pick her up every morning, drive her to the studio, then accompany her
back to her residence." Cohen didn't like the arrangement. It was
obvious from the way he bit off the words. Michael thought if the man
hadn't been in uniform, he would have spat on the street.
"Yes, sir."
"I expect you to conduct yourself in an appropriate manner."
"Yes, sir." Michael was careful to keep the grin off his face until
Cohen turned away.
She came out of the trailer thirty minutes later wearing a loose red
jumpsuit cinched at the waist with a studded leather belt. Her scent
flowed with her-a hot, heady fragrance designed to make a man's mouth
water. Her hair was attractively tousled, her eyes hidden behind
oversized sunglasses. She tipped them down to take another long look at
Michael, then waited beside the patrol car until he opened the door for
her.
She gave him the address, then closed her eyes and remained chillingly
silent along the drive. Long before they had reached the gates to her
estate, Michael had decided he'd mistaken her intentions. He felt both
relieved and foolish. Hadn't he heard that she was having a screaming
affair with her co-star? Of course, a lot of that gossip was just
speculation and publicity, but it certainly made more sense for her to
be attracted to an up-and-corner like Matt Holden than a lowly uniformed
cop.
She signaled the guard at the gate so that theornately worked
wrought-iron swung majestically open. Michael remembered driving to the
house before, Emma beside him in the old Chevelle, their surfboards
strapped to the roof. It made him smile a little. And regret. She
wasn't going to be a part of his life except in his own fantasies.
Conscious of his duty, he got out, rounded the hood, and opened the
passenger door.
"Come in, Officer."
"Ma'am, I-"
"Come in," she repeated, then moved up the steps in her patented style.
She left the door wide for him to close, then walked through the foyer
without a backward glance. Angie didn't doubt he would follow. Men
always followed. After tossing her sunglasses aside she turned into
what she liked to call the drawing room. She opened a Louis Quinze
cabinet and removed two glasses.
"Scotch or bourbon?" She knew he was in the doorway, hesitating.
"I'm on duty," he murmured. His eyes were drawn, and she had known they
would be, to the full-length portrait over the fireplace. He'd seen it